Jackie Treehorne Lived Where?
by Gayle Cara Maxwell
Summary: The Sheats-Goldstein home is the common thread between Josef Kostan and The Dude. The thread draws them together.


2008

'May I say who is calling?' Josef's gentleman's gentleman sniffed at the hippy type shuffling on the doorstep. Being this far up in the hills, Josef Kostan's doorman usually didn't fend off these types. 'The Dude', now senior citizen sniffed at the man's stiff posture, wouldn't want him answering his door; Walter would have a field day.

The door opened wide and with a sweep of the domo's hand the Dude was moving rapidly within sniffing distance of the long ginger seating he'd occupied years ago, in another life.

'Please, wait here.' The man's formal command seemed tongue-in-cheek alongside the mid-century architecture's glass walls. The Dude listened to the home, cocked an ear for music or voices, yet all he heard was the breeze through the garden in front or the echo of traffic below. The noises were as organic as the walls he stood between. The Dude caught the sound of clipped heels, different from the domo's. There he was… a kid; well Mr. Kostan looked like a kid to him.

'Mr. –" Josef cocked his head at the expected guest, as he warmed his preternaturally cool hands behind his back. This senior citizen in wash-worn clothing was no 'Mr.'; he was 'The Dude'?

"The Dude," he threw out his hand to find it hang in space.

"Mr. Dude?" Josef cocked his head at an angle, finally extending his own hand.

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"I thought my attorney had been in touch with your people?" Josef eyed him suspiciously as they headed toward the long leather covered seats in the living room. The room, a bold and raw skeleton, made from poured-in-place concrete seemed an odd place for these two men to meet. Josef wasn't one to invite people into his home, yet a recent 'situation' had presented itself and here they were.

The Dude's head spun at the glazed walls and rosewood floors, his eyes followed the custom built in furniture until he met Josef's gaze.

"Sure, yeah, it seems they have." The old man's shaggy head bobbed long after his words silenced, "What I don't reckon is what a young man like you – fitted out in all this" The Dude motioned to the show home and its furnishings, "Would want with a free spirit like me." The Dude slid his sunglasses up on his head, holding back the wild grey locks back from his sun worn face and then spread his arms out on the orange leather cushions, his fingers unconsciously playing the surface of the cool ginger leather.  
"Exactly." Josef nodded as he scented the clean scent of Lifeboy fighting the fresh perspiration and old weed emanating from the man's pores. The oddly patterned sweater and the faded Zubaz pants were incongruous. The Dude's sandaled feet were well trimmed although the sandals were ragged. Was he in his 60's or 70's? A fading hippy? No he was in full color of a free spirit.

"You've been here before - -" Josef stumbled for a last name, then addressed him as he had been introduced, "Dude?" Josef's hands sunk into his trouser pockets, fine summer weight wool, as he rocked in his Armani loafers. He'd rather hear the thunder and lightning of a summer storm than listen to the cacophony in this man's head.  
"Yeah, once. I still don't get the notion of why I was brought here." The Dude's foot moved to an inner tune as it sat crossed over his knee.

"Jackie Treehorne, you remember him?" Josef's voice was low and dry.

"The Pornagrapher? And I use it in the loosest of terms, I mean, what is pornography for me may be ah… vaginal art for you, right, man?" The Dude drew out the last word then wiped his large hand over the scruff on his face. The Dude sniffed and scanned the room, his grizzled chin jutting out like this home, a concrete edifice, pierced the air over the panoramic view of the city.

Josef wanted to chuckle, vaginal art? Josef's lips drew tight to stifle his grin, "Vaginal. . . . Art?" Josef shook his head and continued, "Back in 2000 when I bought this home from Jackie Treehorne, he sold it on one condition."

The Dude's attention was largely consumed by his admiring the art and the topless sunbathers accumulating at the poolside.

"Dude?" Josef thought about snapping his fingers then he aligned his focus for a split second to enjoy their laughter, with a shake of his head and a mind clearing breath he stepped between the Dude and his pool view.

The golden age stoner ran his tongue over his lips and asked, "You wouldn't have a beverage would you? Jackie kept the bar right over there." He gestured to an empty place in the expansive room.

The guest's and his undead host's eyes met in a deadened pause. After a beat, Josef turned and shook his head to himself as he walked in the opposite direction to open his bar. "What's your poison?" Josef asked over his shoulder.

The seemingly sober senior citizen leaned back, crossed one ankle over his knee and stretched to park his calloused hands behind his head with a straight smile he responded, "A Caucasian". Josef's eyes narrowed in question and the Dude jerked his head up and with a grin replied, "White Russian." Josef set about making it a double and walked the drink back the old guy.

While both their hands were firm around the tall Baccarat tumbler Josef repeated, "Dude, did you know the one condition?"

The Dude's expression flowed from distraction to curiosity, "I can't say that I do, Mr. Kostan." Josef watched the old guy lick the cream off his top lip. This was not how he expected to spend the beginning of his Labor Day Weekend.

Looking upward, as if the answer was written on the ceiling's hundreds of small skylights Josef felt like one of those inverted glasses impaled in the roof. There he was trying to shed a great economical light in this geezer's life and the Dude was gee-gawking like a new Freshie. With a masterful nod of his head Josef made light steps to the leather portfolio.

"Seems Jackie Treehorne had some affinity for unattainable damsels." Josef held up the page, as if to hint at the outcome.

"Humn?" The Dude tipped up the glass and swallowed the last drop of his drink.

"And he wanted to curry favor with a particular Lebowski, Maude Lebowski, the artist." With the mention of a certain titian headed artiste the Dude struck a peculiar posture. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees the Dude hung his head while he held the empty glass against his temple.

The odd posture struck Josef to prod. "Dude?" Josef stepped closer, "Dude?" The Dude never raised his head, just his glass.

His voice was muffled in the sleeve of the worn brown sweater, "Could I trouble you for another beverage, Mr. Kostan?"

Not really surprised, Josef took the empty Baccarat tumbler from him and cradled it with care. This had to be the reason he had staff, but at this very moment Josef accepted his curiosity about the Dude was what kept him from handling the entire transaction through attorneys. Then his head rang a feeling quite like a vestige of his first vampire twilight. He contemplated …. _Humans, mortals, frustrating creatures._ Josef turned on his heel and prepared another drink, this one stronger than the first. He'd get this man into his cups, get his signature and prepare to his own certain 'needs'.

Returning to the Dude he sat on the sofa and drew a foot over his knee, "Dude, this is to be a family home for you." The vampire expected some semblance of a drunken response yet he had cause to arch his brow, his mouth agape at the Dude's facile movement to his feet with almost a Tai Chi grace.

They debated, they deliberated and they disputed the particular, a team of 'Caucasians' was poured and consumed while Josef fortified himself with 'wine'. The Dude was a worthy adversary in debate.

In a voice mellowed by spirits, the Dude accepted it all, "My daughter, Maude's and my daughter, that's the deal." The old guy had put the tumbler on the floor and seemed to dance at the thought of the child. "You don't have her already here with your…." Dude floundered for what to call the retinue of topless women outside.

"My interns? No, your daughter isn't here with my interns" Josef settled back and steepled his fingers, "Mr. Treehorn wished this to be your family home when," Josef lifted the paper to read the name, "Leticia Darice Lebowski is in your custody and care. It is Maude's belief this architecture fosters," Josef read the directive's words, "The Goldstein house fosters collaboration between the interior and exterior encouraging Leticia in arts and studies."

The Dude winced, "I haven't seen Maude since the day we… made Lucretia." He stood, feet spread, fists on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief. "This encroachment, this forced relocation will not stand, man." He shook a fist, looking quite like a Marxist propaganda figure. The similarity caused Josef's wry smile to spread wider.

"I am sure all of these particulars can be ironed out between you and Maude along with Leticia" Josef corrected the daughter's name then forged forward, "Why not allow me to proceed with this transaction so I can move my assets along won't you, Dude?" Josef withdrew his impressive white gold Tibaldi fountain pen. With a snap of his fingers his 'witness' and Notary appeared. Although Josef's nature could overtake the Dude it did appear as if the two men were engaged in a dance, quite like to porcupines. Why hadn't he just glamoured this feisty old flower child? It wasn't too late, now it was the principle of two gentlemen cooperating to accomplish a task. Josef would not relinquish that principle, not in this situation, over his undead body.

v= =v v==v v==v v==v

Mick stepped over the smooth concrete steps for what might be his last time. He had passed the convoy of packed trucks as he'd arrived knowing the house would be silent, save for the natural sounds of the water and the acres of foliage. Mick had spent uncountable evenings here and with what Josef called his 'annoying grasp of humanity' the angsty vamp had to make one last pilgrimage to this raw expression of a dwelling.

Why would a vampire choose essentially a glass house? Without wanting to debate that, Mick turned toward the twilight's golden glow. He'd spent the morning after 'night at the fountain' here and he drew a long unnecessary breath at reliving Josef's admonitions. His light footfalls led him to the bedroom where Mick's eyes traveled to the oddly shaped bed facing the glass wall; it called him to rest for a time. With only the sound of the sheeted mattress giving way under his lissome weight Mick leaned on his elbow to watch the city's lights.

Abruptly, as if he heard Josef's arguments for feeding fresh and ushering certain News Reporters to the Tar Pits Mick turned, thinking Josef was there, that is was 2007 and facing Beth was a fresh heaven and hell of his own choosing. But he was alone. The angular home, devoid of Josef's wealth, was fostering Mick's memoirs now. Like this house his last few months had been similar to the home's design, cavernous and exposed.

Realizing this particular sanctuary was gone and that it was nearly a New Moon Mick rose in the darkness and gave the place a long, last look. Instinctively Mick reached for his keys and phone and exited the way he arrived over oddly juxtaposed concrete stepping stones through the pond. There at the base of several steps in the carport, Josef leaned against the Benz within his own thoughts.

"What are you doing here, brother?" Mick queried, his brows knitted with sincerity. Josef seemed childlike, clad in an Under Armour hoodie and well-worn jeans, his hands buried deep into the pockets.

The 400 year old vampire smirked mischievously, "I was the one who made the payments and - wanted to make my good-byes too." Gracefully he lifted his fine rump off the fender of the classic car and lowered the hood.

Josef chuckled, "Can you believe this house is going to ring with the sounds of a stoner and a nine year old girl?" They both shook their heads as they let the night air envelope them.

"Stoner, yes I do." Mick's eyes squinted and smiled crookedly, then shook his head, dark curls alive with his own laughter, "But not nine year old girls."

Josef's smile spread, then he questioned Mick, "Girls? I thought he had only one daughter."

Mick recalled Beth's earlier years, "There's no such thing as one nine year old girl."

Josef winked at Mick's understanding of certain blonds at every age and with a conspiratorial nod Josef answered, "Just like there's no such thing as vampires?"

All Mick could do was nod sheepishly, scouting the area Mick saw there was no Ferrari, not even Josef's Harley Davidson XR1200, "Want a ride home?"

"Home? HOME?" Josef threw his arm around Mick's shoulder, "The night is young and so are we. I'll not count your single Malts if you don't count my Freshies."

And together they didn't count.

-  
Fini


End file.
